The sun scorched the crimson-hued cliffs of Aethelmar as the final rays of daylight gave way to the gloom of dusk. A dry wind carried with it the lingering scent of charred stone and scorched fabric, remnants of the outposts the group had already conquered. Shadows lengthened across the narrow canyon path that wound toward Kharzad, where the heart of the Renegade resistance still beat like a wounded beast.
Zera tightened the leather grip of her sword as she watched Maika stretch her arms, golden bands of sunlight dancing across her skin with every movement. There had once been doubt between them—a silent tension that hovered over every interaction. But that hesitation had been burned away in the fire of combat. Now, only mutual understanding remained.
"Ready to dance again, lightshow?" Maika grinned, spinning a kunai between her fingers, the weapon catching the dying light like a flash of fire.
Zera raised an eyebrow, her tone dry. "Try not to get yourself killed this time."
"Wasn't planning on it." Maika cracked her knuckles. "Let's see if your blade can keep up with my sunfire."
They moved like twin storms.
The outpost ahead erupted with the first strike—a pulse of solar energy from Maika that shattered the outer gate, followed immediately by Zera's brilliant, light-infused slash that cleaved through the falling rubble and opened a path forward. The sound was like thunder cracking stone, a seismic symphony that echoed across the cliffs.
Cultists scrambled in disarray as the two warriors descended upon them with blinding speed. Zera's blade gleamed, cutting through corruption with surgical grace, while Maika flickered across the battlefield in bursts of time-dilated motion, her movements a blur of gold and fire.
"What are they?" a cultist screamed in panic. "How can they move like that?!"
"That's not normal magic! It's something else!"
Their panic rippled outward like a shockwave.
From above, Laverna unleashed a maelstrom of lightning and ice, her elemental storm swallowing the sky. Her jamadhars carved arcs through enemy ranks, leaving sizzling trails of steam where ice met flesh.
Her Servant Crest flared with each strike, enhancing her already ferocious command of the battlefield. Each strike tore chunks of stone from the outpost walls, sending splinters of ancient brick flying like daggers.
Tessara followed in her wake, illusions fluttering like falling petals. Foxfire spilled in cascading orbs around their flanks, disorienting and dividing enemy troops.
Her lunar magic was no longer hesitant. She wielded it like a second skin, shadows bending to her will with an elegance born from confidence and camaraderie.
Together, the four women surged through the outpost like a tidal wave of fury.
Shin remained in the rear—not idle, but calculating. His eyes swept the battlefield like a commander of old, mapping every danger, every weakness.
When an archer crept into a vantage point, Shin was there first, silent and unseen. A shuriken was embedded in the cultist's throat before the man even knew he had been spotted.
When an elite cultist tried to flank Maika with a corrupted halberd, Shin appeared behind him in a swirl of crimson mist, driving Yoshimatsu through the attacker's back with precise lethality. He vanished again before the corpse even hit the ground.
His arsenal changed as quickly as the threat: a nagamaki to cut down heavily armored zealots, a tanto for tight quarters, a jitte to disarm rogue mages, a kusarigama that lashed through the air like a lightning serpent.
Every motion was precise, controlled, and deadly. The wind howled around him, kicked up by his speed and strength, a storm of blades at his beck and call.
He was the blade in the shadow, the unyielding force behind their assault.
Crests glowed brighter. Energy surged in waves as the party's synergy reached new heights.
Maika and Zera now moved in perfect tandem, the sun and the blade. Maika would feint with a radiant flash, drawing fire, while Zera slipped in from the side, ending the fight with a single stroke. Their movements flowed into one another, their crests glowing in sync, blades creating sweeping trails of light and flame across the battlefield.
"You're not bad, sunflare," Zera said, slicing down a cultist trying to flee.
Maika smirked. "And you're not as uptight as I thought, starlight."
Laverna's voice crackled through the crest link. "Keep it moving. The west wing is folding. Tessara's foxfire has them chasing shadows."
"Copy that," Shin replied, emerging beside her. He gave Laverna a brief nod. "East ridge is secured. No reinforcements inbound."
Tessara floated down beside them, her eyes glowing faintly with foxfire. "They're routed. Only the core holds."
They regrouped at the heart of the outpost, where a corrupted altar pulsed with Falzath energy. The remnants of the cult circled it in desperation, chanting through cracked lips and trembling limbs, clutching foul staves etched in obsidian runes.
Zera stepped forward, her blade humming. "End it."
Maika raised her palm, golden light spiraling from her fingers.
Laverna unleashed a vortex of flame that roared like a dragon across the cultists.
Tessara scattered illusions to divide their focus.
And Shin? Shin charged forward through the chaos, his blade cutting the air in wide arcs, carving a path straight to the altar. He felt their power behind him, each crest pulsing with trust.
His own crest burned on his left hand, tethered to every heartbeat, every breath shared between them.
He struck the altar with a cry that echoed like thunder, shattering it into fragments.
A wave of silence followed.
Then light.
Brilliant, unfiltered light.
Each of their crests flared in unity, gold and silver, blue and crimson, flickering like constellations against the dark. They were one.
United.
Under the Soma banner.
As the dust settled, Shin looked at them, at Maika and Zera standing side by side, their once-clashing energies now harmonized. At Laverna, steady and fierce, lightning still licking her arms. At Tessara, serene yet glowing, her illusions fading like moonlight.
They were no longer fragments of broken pasts. They were blades of devotion.
And they were ready for war.
Kharzad awaited.
So did Tristan.
The storm was only just beginning.